287. AVENEL, Pt. 9
Back in the old days
of NYCity, some
time about the
1830's, they used
to call the street-kids
urchins, as in old
London or something,
and the ones who
hung around print
shops and such, they'd
call 'printer's devils.'
It was just a name
given to the kid
who helped pile
the paper, or cut
and pack, or haul
and move things,
or even set some
type. If a kid did
it long enough, well
enough, he could
be brought in as
an 'apprentice,'
learn the trade
and all that -
eventually get
a job and even
maybe become
a journeyman or
a master. I was
a bit like that,
hanging around
print shops. The
old hot-lead,
linotype shops,
like NJ Appellate,
and St. George
Press too. Those
old machines had
a suspended 'pig'
of solidified lead,
which, in a really
hot tub suspended
at the machine,
would slowly
melt and make
the thin metal
letter-strips for
each line of type,
(thus 'line o' type').
My entry-level
hang-around jobs
at these places
usually involved
tending the lead
pots, the melting
and reloading of
the pigs, and cleaning
them for re-melt
later (old ink and
stuff had to come
off - a brushed
solution and a
scrub did the
trick). And, also,
something called
'cleaning the bands'
which which were
metal spacers that I
had to rub in a tray
of powdered graphite
(like pencil lead) so
the spaces between
words, (when cast)
and eventually,
when printed,
wouldn't have
lines in them.
They had to
remain clear.
For me, at New
Jersey Appellate,
that was a first-task,
daily routine -
I'd arrive about
seven AM and
have about an hour
before the others
arrived, which
hour I'd spend
preparing the
letterpress trays
and doing the
bands and all,
as I just explained,
heating up the
pots and preparing
the ingots (pigs).
Jim Ratigan would
come in, and, I
think it was, Richard
Martin, and they'd
have to be all ready
and prepared to
go right to work.
For the next six
or seven hours
all they'd do is
set type and then
pull proofs, or
sometimes I'd
do that - with
the rest, taking
breaks, cigarettes,
talk, schmoozing.
Dick (as we knew
him) would always
have the latest
TV Guide with
him, funny as it
to see, and he'd
go over carefully,
daily, the night's
line-up of shows
to watch, etc. His
absolute favorite
show, I can still
recall, was
something called
'That Girl', with
Marlo Thomas.
I'm not sure what
it was, never saw
it, but for him she
was everything,
it seemed, in
the world. Also,
he had the same
name as some
guy from Laugh-In,
which show too
they were always
talking about. I
feigned indifference
to all this, and
whenever they asked
why I didn't watch
anything I'd just
say I was 'too
poor to have
a TV.' Worked
every time.
-
New Jersey Appellate,
at this time, was in a
place at the bottom
of Main Street, on
a railroad siding,
where once, in the
1920's era, had
been Woodbridge
Feed and Grain -
just what it said,
a railroad siding
where freight cars
of grain and seed
would come in,
be unloaded,
and sold to the
agrarian people
of the area. Of
course, that's all
gone now. And so
were, even then,
all the chickens
and the cows,
as well as any
idea at all of
what any of this
may once have
been about. It no
longer mattered,
and people didn't
care. The building
was vacant, a large
loft area, filled
with pigeons
and open-to-the-sky
rafters, in the one
part. We took over
the useful sections,
and worked this
oddball print shop.
The whole place,
now, modernized
and changed, is
a local brewery
today - beer vats,
dining, outdoor
second-level
porches and all.
Lovers and losers
alike, out for
dates and dining.
A big hoo-hah;
if they only knew.
It was cold and
drafty, a bit
smelly at the
rear section,
and pretty
run-down, in
the way those
old places got
- the bricks
slowly turning
to red powder,
the concrete or
masonry, or
whatever it is
between the
brick, the mortar
I guess, falling
out in chunks.
The bathroom
was like a plywood
afterthought, so
weirdly apportioned
that it seemed if
you needed to sit
down, you had to
stand to do it,
and if you needed
to stand, you had
to sit down. Get
the idea? At first
there were no girls
around, so none of
that mattered -
then they hired
some girl from
Newark, as a
receptionist, telephone
clerk, and greeter,
and all of a sudden
the bathroom thing
became a big deal.
No more pissing
on the wall, as it
were, and we had
to install a nice
mirror, and one
of those little vanity,
or shelf things,with
a mirrored door, like
you see in bathrooms,
for aspirins and toothpaste
and make-up and stuff
- she (Marlene) thought
she was pretty fancy,
a real Hispanic sex-pot
vibe going on always,
and we had to, all of
a sudden, take care
of what we said and
did. She was OK
though - probably
30, overweight in
that Spanish, corn-fed
way that really only
'fills out' clothing
but isn't really any
fun. Bleached hair,
long red fingernails,
all that. And then,
once a week, I'd
go over to Metuchen
and pick up some
lady they'd hired
to do the weekly
payroll and bills,
for about 5 hours,
one day a week.
She lived right
by Rt. 287, in
a new split-level,
from about 1966,
where they'd
just built some
hundred of them
just off Durham
Ave - still a
hard-pack dirt
road then. The
macadam ended
at the old railroad
tracks at Gulton
Industries. They
made batteries
or something.
-
Somehow it fell
to me to be the
person who
fetched all
these people.
Not Marlene;
she had her
own, pretty new,
'65 Mustang.
The bookkeeper
lady, payroll
clerk, her name
was Ann; she
about 50. I'd get
her, and then
return her. And
then I'd run up to
Newark, to get this
Spanish kid named
Angel, a few days
a week. His name
was really 'Anhell',
as others pronounced
it, the Spanish guys,
in Newark. But we
just called him Angel.
I used to drive him
back and forth, to
Newark - along
Mulberry Street. I
never got the whole
idea; he worked there,
in some sort of industrial
loft, from which I'd pick
him up, and then I'd
drive him down to Main
Street, Woodbridge,
where he'd work
with us - me and
the old guy, Emil
Hazenhall, from Nutley.
I think they knew
each other from maybe
working together there.
Angel was about 18,
at most, Spanish guy,
and he already had
two kids. Emil, on
the other hand, was
an old guy, about 60
then. (Yeah, funny
how I said 'old', now).
This was a long time
back, all this, so it's a
fair deal old Emil's
gone to the big print
shop in the sky
somewhere, unless
he's like 110. As I
said, Emil was from
Nutley, an older,
well-established
guy. At this time,
I should point out,
I was working at
N. J. Appellate
Printing, not St.
George Press,
which was all
coming later.
This was a
stopgap job I
took when
some guy got
drafted and
sent to Vietnam.
I was, just then,
temporarily driving
a delivery van for them,
and they said, once
that other guy was
leaving his job, 'Hey,
you wanna' come
inside and learn
some printing?' I
said sure, OK. It
was that simple -
lasted a while, taught
me stuff. I replaced
a guy on his way
to Vietnam. How
weird, even then.
-
One time, always
working with
words and junk
in my head, I
found myself
laughing - at
something I'd
just said, in the
car, talking with
this Angel guy. I
said 'I'm not able,
Angel, anyway...'
as I sat there
gaping. I forget
what the subject
was, but it cracked
me up, all that
automatic alliteration.
I've loved stuff like
that, always - and
of course it has
always, as well,
made for the huge
gap that usually
arose between
myself and other
people. This Angel
guy, it didn't
much matter to
him : I'd never
really dealt with
a 'foreigner' before,
a person of another
culture and language,
but what I saw, through
him, of all that Spanish
stuff and that culture,
way back then, was
an eye opener. That
section of Newark,
Mulberry Street, etc.
was kind of split
between small
craftsmen lofts
and little factories,
and the regular
Hispanic and Italian
neighborhood stores
and things. Then,
at about the same
time, there was
beginning an influx
of Portuguese
stuff too - which
Portuguese culture,
called 'Down Neck'
or the 'Ironbound'
(because it was
ringed by the railroads),
was already
well-established
in another, nearby,
section. This part
here was, sort of,
behind the City
Hall and civic
stuff. It's all gone
now, and even
the streets are
closed and barricaded,
since 9-11, to keep
errant cars from
ramming the place,
filled with bombs
and the rest. There
are cops around,
security booths,
and checkpoints
for limited entry
and permits, etc.,
for the 'governmental
area. Mulberry Street
itself has just become
a ghost-town, a slow
and crummy nothing
area. Back then, at
least, it was interesting.
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